


A Big Black Sky Over My Town

by Wizard95



Category: Captain America (Movies), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Also ignoring DP2 bc reasons, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Ignoring Infinity War bc that's good for our health, M/M, Peter's 18, Spideypool - Freeform, There's still some Peter/Wade though, Wade is more like a buddy than a real love interest, tags will be updated as the story goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-26 17:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15668202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Peter is in love with Tony, Tony is marrying Pepper, May feigns obliviousness, and Wade is a bad influence and a flirt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to make this chaptered, but it will be, although probably not more than ten! I'll try my best.

Peter can hear the water fall on the tiles as clearly as if it was falling right next to him. He lets the sound lull him into a dreamless state. A state in which he can forget what's about to happen. A state in which he isn't standing in front of a mirror tying up a bow around his neck ─ and failing spectacularly at it. An alternative world where speaking up wouldn't condemn him, where he wouldn't be frowned upon, judged. Where he isn't wearing this stupid suit ─ he clenches his teeth and stares at his poor attempt of a bow, just to take it off again a second later. Why does it have to be a stupid bow? What's wrong with a normal tie?! 

 

"You can do this, it's fine" he reassures himself, even though he knows he _can't_ , he knows it's _not_. "It's fine, it's totally fine" he says again, voice losing conviction and throat getting obstructed. 

 

He blinks repeatedly.

 

He has to come to terms with it. There is no version of the story in which he gets what he wants, there simply isn't, and the sooner he accepts that, the sooner he'll be able to move on. But it's easier said than done, and suddenly he can't hear the water anymore. Suddenly the water turns into high-heels on wooden floor, and May is calling his name from the corridor. He webs the handle of the door up from where he stands. He can't let May see him like this. 

 

"I'm almost done!" He exclaims, rubbing his red eyes.

 

"The car's already here! Peter?!"

 

"Uh... I'm fine! You go! I'll catch up!" He tries, making a face, expectant.

 

_Please leave please leave please leave._

__

 A second later, May tries to open the door.

 

"Peter...?" She asks from the other side. Peter stares at his disheveled hair, at his puffy eyes, at his bare feet and at his ruined, un-tiable bow. 

 

"Everything's fine aunt May! Just fell asleep!" 

 

There's a moment of silence, then Peter hears her swearing under her breath. 

 

"We're gonna be late!" She exclaims again, an edge to her voice now. Peter sighs. She bought it.

 

"You go! I'll meet you there, promise!"

 

There's a longer moment of silence during which May seems to be making up her mind. 

 

"I can't believe this" she mutters again. "Be there on time!" she orders, "and presentable!" 

 

"Will be!" Peter smiles despite himself, content to have just a little more time to feel miserable without pretending otherwise.

 

He hears her go out of the apartment, mumbling angrily about curfew and how he's an irresponsible young man. __"_ Asleep at 11? Lazy ass! _"__

 

He chuckles, but it's a heartless chuckle. Soon, the anguish returns. He snatches his phone, the bow, and his other web-shooter ─ which he puts on. Maybe a stroll will help him clear his mind. 

 

He waits until the black Volvo is out of sight, then decides to take the elevator down to the lobby. It'll be fine. He'll stay until they say their vows, then flee. No-one will notice his absence at the party. 

 

He breathes in the hot morning air as soon as he steps outside, deep breath in. Then he puts his hands in his pockets, little worrying about the suit getting wrinkles, and starts walking his way downtown. Maybe he'll bump into a mugging taking place, or will need to stop another bank robbery ─ no-one would call him on __that__ , that's his job. The well-being of the people goes strictly before his important attendance at a wedding he doesn't want to be attending in the first place.

 

Except ─ he left his mask home. He can't do much dressed in a navy blue suit.

 

He stops at a red light in the corner, right in front of a kiosk. He thinks of buying one of the avengers' masks. Wouldn't that be funny... webbing up criminals wearing a suit and a Captain America plastic mask. Now _that_  would make for a fun newspaper story.

 

His eyes dart to the papers sprayed out for sale. _Big wedding. Stark wedding. Finally tying the knot? The wedding of the year. Better late than never!  
_

 

He looks away, back to the avengers' masks, wondering if Steve Rogers will be there.

 

He won't, why would he? He hasn't shown his face since The Accords fiasco. Peter can't help but feel a bit of hostility towards him. He'd been with Tony after the events, after Natasha turned her back on him as well. They had all disappeared, left Tony to pick up the pieces, to deal with it all, to deal with the press and the government and... and himself.

 

He notices the man behind the counter nervously stealing glances at him, and realizes he's been standing there, looking at the masks for a good five minutes.

 

He crosses on the next green light.

 

He remembers seeing Tony drinking himself to waste on New Year's eve. He wasn't supposed to see it.

 

Pepper had been out of town on business, Happy was spending the holidays with his family. Peter had come round ─ or rather, swung round, full suit on ─ to say hi but mostly to express his immense gratitude. It'd taken five seconds of looking at Tony for Peter to change his plans. Much as he'd like to have a close relationship with the man, that wasn't the case. Tony wasn't one to let out his feelings, his __true__  feelings, he didn't like sentimentality. He didn't let Peter in, and Peter understood. Seeing Tony with puffy eyes, a lost gaze, sprawled on his sofa, surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol... he wasn't supposed to see it. Peter wasn't supposed to be aware of that part of him, he knows Tony wouldn't want him to, and so he left. He went back home to Aunt May, and couldn't shake that image from his head for days to come.

 

And so he had good reason to feel hostile towards Steven Rogers and James Barnes. They had acted without consideration, with no care whatsoever for what they left behind, the aftermath of their actions.

 

He supposes they got what they deserved, what with them being fugitives and all.

 

Peter wouldn't call it protectiveness, but if he ever crossed paths with Captain America again, he wouldn't pull his punches. He might've stopped World War ll by disobeying orders, but in this age and time, he was just another asshole.

 

He's aware it's only forty minutes until the ceremony begins and he's walking to the opposite part of town, but he can't make his body turn around. Besides, it would be at least ten minutes ─ in a quick pace ─ until he got a taxi, and at _least_  thirty more to get to the venue ─ a nice private park in close proximity to the compound. In short, he was going to be late one way or another.

 

He _did_  put his old web shooters on, but he's not going to risk it. He doesn't have the suit, and Aunt May will have his head if he turns up with his clothes ruined.

 

_She will have your head if you don't turn up at all._

 

He sighs.

 

In that exact moment, in which Peter believes to be one more of those occasions where the universe flicks his big middle finger at him, a yellow taxi turns round the corner, driving slowly. Too slowly, as if urging him to stop him.

 

Peter curses.

 

Maybe it's broken. Maybe that's why it's driving so slow, maybe the engine is malfunctioning...

__

_Maybe get in now._

 

He rushes towards the front passenger door to open it and the car stops.

 

"Hey man" Peter smiles, friendly despite wanting to make a face at the strong flower softener smell inside. The driver, a young, rather dark-skinned guy who's clutching the wheel way too tight, turns nervously to look at him.

 

"I'm sorry, sir" he says with a thick accent. "I’m not available at the moment"

 

Peter smiles, because maybe this is not one of those finger-flipping occasions after all.

 

"That's all right, I'm not in a rush. Oh and I'm not a sir" he replies, laughing, making himself as comfortable as he can on the worn-out seat, careful to leave the window open just a bit so the perfume doesn't overwhelm him.

 

"I'm in a personal errand right now, not on duty" the driver explains. On duty? What is he, a policeman?

 

"Oh... oh well" Peter frowns. This way ─ taking a taxi ─ he wouldn't feel like he was completely avoiding his moral responsibility... it's not his fault the only taxi in town is faulty, Aunt May would understand that. If he gets off now though... "I don't mind waiting, if you don't─ GET DOWN!" He shouts, his senses spiking up, a bullet piercing the front glass just a breath after, the driver letting out a high-pitched scream as he hides behind the wheel.

 

Peter's senses wash over him, the sensation only getting stronger by the second.

 

"Go faster!" He urges, the car is barely moving.

 

"Can't!" The driver replies from his hiding position.

 

"Can't or won't?" Peter inquires, quite believing he just hopped on a taxi that most probably runs personal errands for a street gang. He looks around for the source of the bullet, aware that they are a huge target parked on the street, vulnerable to─

 

"GO DOPINDER, NOW!"

 

In the time that takes Peter to turn around to see who has jumped on the back seat, another three bullets pierce through the front window, Dopinder keeps screaming, but he slams his feet down and suddenly they're driving past the speed limit ─ this is a residential area, after all. Peter forgot to put his seat-belt on, and has hit his head against the window several times already.

 

"Son of a bitch!" The man behind screams, Peter flinches at the sound of gunshots _inside_  the taxi ─ he loses hearing on his left ear for some seconds. "Did you pick─ Fuck! Why the fuck is there someone else in the car?!"

 

"Why are you wearing a mask?!" Peter asks, _a suit._  A _leather_  suit. 

 

"I'm so sorry DP, I told the gentleman I was on duty and I was in fact explaining to him that I couldn't drive him when you got in" He rants, resuming his normal posture, looking right up as if this is all normal to him.

 

"Is this an actual taxi?!" Peter exclaims. "You know it is illegal to─  _watch out_!" He puts his hands over Dopinder's on the wheel, steering the car so they don't run the person over.

 

" _Get us the fuck out of here now!_ "

 

A shower of bullets falls on the car, and Peter holds onto his seat with force, his knuckles going white. He can't use the web-shooters, they've seen his face, he can't do anything. If he's dealing with the mob nothing good will come out of him revealing his identity.

 

"For fuck's sake I swear to fucking god if we get this kid killed─" the man mumbles as he charges the gun, and peers out the window, Peter turns around bewildered and yanks him back inside.

 

"Are you crazy?! They're shooting at us!" He shouts.

 

"Oh, really?" Red-and-black suit ─ DP? ─ puts a hand to his heart and tilts his head, and though Peter can't see his face behind the mask, he can very much guess his expression.

 

"Dear me, pretty boy, what would I do without your wise words to advise me?"

 

He shoves Peter off him.

 

"Now sit tight" he points at him. "I don't want your blood in my hands."

 

"I think we lost them, DP" Dopinder turns on another corner and 'DP' goes back to sticking half his body out the broken window. Peter checks the mirrors, he can confirm that yes, they seem to have left the shooters behind, his senses are receding. His adrenaline, though... high up.

 

He's never been in the middle of a shooting without his suit on. He hates the feeling of vulnerability, of uselessness.

 

"Yeah" DP groans as he falls down on the back seat. "I think we're good"

 

Peter turns around on his seat, tense all over, teeth clenched, there's a ringing in his ears that won't go away, and he's trying really hard not to throw that unbearable flower softener out of the window so he can breath properly again. There are a million words in his mouth, and they die right there when he sees a big black gush of blood on DP's shoulder.

 

"You're bleeding" Peter says, voice trembling, looking up at the man in the suit who is sprawled comfortably as if nothing's wrong, as if he doesn't probably have a bullet inside his body.

 

"Wow, you picked up a real brainy one, Dope." He gestures towards Peter vaguely. "What was a nice place like you doing in a boy like that anyway?"

 

Peter frowns, looks to Dopinder in alarm.

 

"Ugh, I'll be fine." He grunts, as if reading Peter's thoughts.

 

"You're clearly not" Peter barks and turns back to look forward. "In the head" he adds, and opens the glove compartment to search for any kind of cloth that can serve to press down on that wound. He finds another gun, a cassette and three more flower softeners, unpacked.

 

"I'm afraid we'll have to drop you off here, sir" Dopinder turns to him, as the car comes to a stop in a red light. 

 

"What manners are those?" DP interrupts, then he grunts again, in pain. "Might as well give him the ride, I bet we just scarred him for life."

 

Peter turns around at the words, the sarcasm in them evident. The man in the suit holds his gaze for a couple of seconds, then his face contorts in pain.

 

"Fuck" he hisses. "I'm _so_  fucking them over next time"

 

Peter looks down to his suit pocket, where the white handkerchief is neatly folded. He plucks it out and climbs his way next to DP.

 

“You need a hospital” Peter points out, because none of the other two men seem to be considering the blood-soaked hanky a pressing matter. Peter is really starting to think this is just a common occurrence for them, and the thought only adds to his distress. He should be webbing them up for the police to find.

 

"I would have, if it hadn't been for _your_  pretty ass" he points at Peter accusingly, and when Peter presses down on the wound, the man suddenly wraps one of his hands around his wrist to stop him from pushing down any further. His wrist, right where the web-shooter is. 

 

Peter freezes, only adding to the suspicion already showing in DP's fac─ _mask_.

 

"So why the suit?" Peter asks, snapping the man's attention back to his eyes, and he's not sure he likes his attention there either.

 

"Where to, sir?" Dopinder asks.

 

"The hos─" a hand over Peter’s mouth prevents him from completing the sentence.

 

“Nope.” DP shakes his head theatrically. Peter looks down to the now-red hankie, and makes a face.

 

"The suit is so the bad guys don't see you bleed, right DP?" Dopinder takes it upon himself to answer the question, and Peter concentrates in keeping the pressure steady.

 

"The bad guys? So you're the good guys?" Peter tries to make conversation, to steer away the man’s attention from his weirdly-shaped wrists, all the while battling with the inner voice that's telling him to get away. Why is he helping a criminal? Why is he pressing down on a bullet wound, ruining his suit handkerchief, preventing a mob member from dying, when he's probably had dozens of people dying by his hand himself? "Like The Avengers? That's why the suit?"

 

"The Avengers?" DP snorts. "That's offensive."

 

Peter frowns.

  
  
_No _.__ That _is _.__

 

“Have you seen any of their sexy well-groomed expensive faces around lately? No. Do you know how many people get mugged in New York alone in a week? Two-hundred and four. Do you know how many drug cartels are running in Queens right now? Twelve. One less as of today. I have killed three children traffickers in the past month already, one got away ─ not for long” he lifts a finger to point that out. Peter opens his mouth, but doesn’t have time to speak a word. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, so no, I am not a camera-loving bitch like Tony fucking Stark, I’m a different kind of scum.”

 

Peter presses down on the wound, and Wade lets out a surprised gasp.

 

“ _Motherfucker!_ ”

 

“Tony Stark is a good person─”

 

“Uh-oh, we’ve got ourselves a fanboy, Dopinder!” DP sings in mockery, Peter grits his teeth.

 

He looks away; he thinks he recognizes the buildings flashing by, and they’re going further south. He doesn’t have it in himself to protest. He’s leaving the city on a taxi with only his web-shooters and high-sensitivity to aid him, with two strangers ─ one of which is probably a wanted man ─ on the most important day of the month. Tony had asked him to be there, on the front row, personally had taken him to choose a suit, and Peter was pointedly disappointing him.

 

“Owww. Have I offended your cute Stark-loving ass?” Peter clenches his teeth and looks back down at the man in the suit.

 

“You can bleed out for all I care” He says, and pushes the man away from him to try and look like he means it. The truth is he doesn’t, the truth is Peter is almost grateful that that taxi turned up when it did, that Dopinder had been driving around, that DP had sucked him into his world of ─ of whatever his world was. Peter had been wishing for a safe way out of that wedding, and he’d gotten it.

 

Maybe not _that_ safe, but hey, he didn’t get shot, did he?  
  
 

"Oh, I wouldn't keep my hopes up darling."

 

Peter throws the damp handkerchief on his face.

 

“I will cherish it with my life” DP holds it with both hands against his chest.

 

He takes a deep breath of air and closes his eyes. He can feel a headache creeping in, no doubt product of the horrid daffodil softener smell. Maybe some stress.

 

“What does ‘DP’ stand for, anyway? That’s a terrible alias.” He mumbles, crossing his arms and looking away. He won’t leave if they don’t ask him to.

 

_What are you doing, Peter?_

 

“And I suppose Spider-Man is a great one?”

 

If he’d turned his head quicker, he would’ve broken his neck.

 

He stares at the man with wide eyes.

 

“What do you... mean, like, I mean it’s not that bad a name, I don’t think so, no...” he stutters. “What... why are you asking _me_?”

 

Maybe he should leave after all, maybe he should leave _now_.

 

He shoots a glance to the door.

 

“ _Relaxxx _,__ I'm no Loki! We're all friends here” DP comes to put a hand around his shoulder, and Peter’s body tenses all over, his senses telling him to get away. He’s ready to throw a punch, a kick, anything. His hand goes to rest over his phone on his pocket, ready to speed-dial Tony. “You got terrific reflexes, by the way, should act more like a prepubescent teenager when you’re around mortals, just a tip” DP winks at him, and all Peter can do is frown, at a loss for words. His eyes stop on the bullet wound, that doesn't seem to be bleeding anymore. “The name’s Deadpool.”


	2. Chapter 2

By the time he gets to his destination, a beautifully-decorated clearing crowded with people and tables, Peter’s headache is on its peak, and the loud music doesn’t help to ease his discomfort at all. The security guards keep him from entering for a good couple of minutes until Happy notices him vaguely gesturing to them and drags him into the sea of people.

 

He can almost feel the grass on his feet with every step he takes, despite wearing shoes, and wonders for a moment if he’s experiencing some kind of sensory-overload. The ringing in his ear comes and goes, hasn’t left completely since Deadpool shot that gun next to his eardrum, he can hear Happy loud and clear, too loud and too clear, yet a little bit distant at the same time.

 

“Where were you?! May has been hysterical. You weren’t answering your phone, _that’s new_ ”

 

Peter snorts, for lack of any other response or reaction. He silenced it on purpose ─ of course he’s not going to _tell him_ that. He didn’t get up this morning willing to hear Tony and Pepper saying their vows and see them staring longingly at each other, the whole point of the endeavor was to _avoid_  it. Granted, he didn’t think he’d actually manage to, but karma had caught up with him and now his identity was compromised.

 

_‘Oh, that? Yeah, I don’t bleed out. Like, I don’t die. As in I’m immortal. That’s my superpower.’_

 

“Is that blood on your shirt? What _happened_  to you?” Happy continues the interrogation, although Peter assumes he doesn’t really expect ─ nor want ─ any answers. He drags him inside, where he doesn’t see Aunt May but _after_  she has stopped hugging him.

 

“Are you all right? Look at your hair! So much for presentable! Where were you?! Did your phone die again?”

 

Peter flinches at the shower of questions, and immediately realizes that was the wrong face to make. They’re inside, so the music shouldn’t be as bothersome in here.

 

Emphasis on shouldn’t.

 

It doesn’t help that Tony’s taste in music is so hectic ─ that is to say, hectic to his sensible ears, even more sensible after having had shots fired mere centimeters from his skull.

 

“I─ missed the bus─ hopped... hopped on the wrong bus, and I tripped” he lifts his hand to show the blood-stained shirt before May notices it herself and needlessly worries over it. “I’m sorry” he mumbles, as a hand goes to rub at his eyes. May frowns back at him, and one of her hands comes to rub at his shoulder.

 

“Peter...” she whispers, a hidden meaning under her tone.

 

Peter doesn’t look her in the eye, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to see it in her eyes too.

 

“I should... go fix my...”

 

“Yes” May agrees, and steps back to give him space. “And the bow...” she nods. Peter shows her a faint smile of gratitude and leaves for the bathroom. “I’ll be outside” she adds, before he turns the corner and disappears from the fancy lobby.

 

It’s a beautiful sunny day, couldn’t be more ideal for an outdoor wedding ceremony. Peter would rather be _anywhere_ but here. He stands in front of the tiny mirror with a purpose: he needs to fix his disheveled hair and clothes ─ he doubts he’ll succeed in wiping the blood off though ─ put on that demonic bow, and stand straight. He can’t let it show. He only looks miserable because he wants to. He hid his identity for a good whole year without no-one busting him, he can live through an afternoon of fake smiles and words.

 

It should be a piece of cake.

 

Yet there’s an aching in his chest that doesn’t go away, and he knows it’s got nothing to do with his heightened senses or the recent events. If only, his encounter with the mercenary had made the chest pain ─ the denial ─ disappear temporarily.

 

The door to the bathroom suddenly snaps open, and Peter takes a step back, startled. He should’ve heard him coming, why didn’t he hear him coming?

 

“Hey kid,” Tony gives him a once over, Peter swallows. “Happy tells me you _tripped _.__ ”

 

Tony’s wearing a _white_ suit. He’s never seen him wearing a _white_  suit before, he looks positively angelical. His hair is gelled-up, impeccable as always. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses Peter’s never seen before ─ and he’s made it one of his hobbies to keep a mental list of those ─ and a silver bow. He hasn’t seen Pepper yet, but if she looks any more astonishing than Tony, Peter is sure the paparazzi will have a feast.

 

__‘_ I am not a camera-loving bitch like Tony fucking Stark, I’m a different kind of scum.’_

 

Peter clears his throat and turns to look back into the mirror, _don’t stare_.

 

“I─ yes, someone bumped into me” he replies, opening the water faucet. “But I’m all good now, just a little bruise...” _Which I hope you don’t want to look at, because there is no bruise, because I didn’t bump into anyone and fell, because this is not my blood but a human-mutant one’s, and he says he can’t die, is that even possible?_ “I’m sorry I didn’t make it on time” _and he knows I’m Spider-Man, he saw my face and knows I live in Queens. I should be telling you all this. _“__...for the vows, I mean. _ _”__

 

“Oh, you didn’t miss much” He can see Tony making a dismissing hand-gesture with the corner of his eye, but doesn’t turn. He focuses on the water falling, and puts some soap on his hands and bears his time. “Uneventful morning, then?”

 

_Understatement of the century._

 

“Yeah, I fell asleep. May wasn’t happy” he finishes rinsing his hands and shows Tony his back in favour of pulling some paper towels out of the box. “I was patrolling late last night” he adds, to make his story sound more convincing. He’s not lying, he _did_  stay up on the roof until his body practically shut down, quietly hearing Mr. Smith from the eleventh floor switching channels every ten seconds and Mrs. Clement’s dog softly snoring on the apartment balcony. Maybe he even went down to pet it a couple of times.

 

“You know, people tend to avoid eye-contact when they’re hiding something.”

 

Peter forces himself to turn around as naturally as possible and looks at Tony. _It’s just Tony, the same Tony as always._

 

 _ _“__ I’m not─”

 

“Yeah, don’t. Don’t do that” Tony cuts him off.

 

“I ain’t doing anything!” Peter explains, trying to keep his voice steady. He looks down and busies himself with the task of scrubbing the sky-blue shirt with the damp paper towels until the pink-ish stain isn’t as visible anymore. He looks back up because right ─ he needs to keep his eyes on Tony, beautiful Tony, married to Pepper, untouchable unreachable Tony, or he’ll think he’s lying to him. “I’m not doing anything” he repeats, this time shrugging.

 

“Why are you wearing your old-tech?” Tony takes a step forward, gesturing towards his wrists, and Peter tries really hard not to take a step back, because he wouldn’t have taken a step back three months ago, before he and Pepper announced their engagement, and so he shouldn’t take a step back now.

 

He’s got him there. His old-tech is untraceable.

 

 _ _“__ No reason _ _”__ he shrugs again, and looks back up.

 

_Stop shrugging. Stop avoiding his eyes. He’ll know something’s up._

 

_Fuck it, he already knows something’s up. He just would never imagine─_

 

He flinches, a wave of pain suddenly taking over the left side of his head. Tony has his hands on his shoulders immediately.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

He curls his hands into fists.

 

“Nothing, it’s nothing”

 

“That wasn’t nothing” Tony says, his stern authoritarian voice surfacing. “Come on, look at me” he urges, and Peter just __then__  realizes he’s been blinking nonstop. “ _Peter_ ” he grunts, and Peter flinches again in pain, although he tries his best to hide it, and bites his tongue to prevent himself from making any sound. But Tony isn’t stupid. “FRIDAY?”

 

“ _There’s some bruising around his head, a hit could’ve triggered a response in his system, he’s experiencing high levels of hyper-sensibility. His left eardrum seems to be damaged, that would be causing the impaired balance_.” Comes the AI’s female-computerized voice. Peter frowns at the words ‘impaired balance’, and is about to speak out, to reassure Tony his balance is perfectly fine, when he realizes he’s leaning to his left so much that Tony is preventing him from falling.

 

Another wave of pain flows through his head and settles around his forehead, and he can’t help but let out a whine. His hands instantly cover his ears, where he can clearly feel the pumping of blood.

 

“Uneventful morning my ass.” He hears Tony say, and then feels the cold floor through his clothes and understands Tony is getting him to sit down. It’s _too_  cold, he makes another face. “Yeah, that won’t do, I’m taking you to the compound.”

 

“No─ I’m fine I’m─ Mr. Stark please─ don’t─”

 

It’s his wedding day, he wasn’t supposed to even _notice_  his presence here.

 

“It’ll go away, it’ll go away” he insists, and opens his eyes, tries to focus, tries his best to play the part. Tony’s big brown eyes are prying into his. He’s way closer than Peter remembered him, he can feel the heat from his body, smell his expensive cologne, hear his breathing... And his hands... His hands are on his neck, Peter realizes, and from that moment forward it’s all he can feel. Tony’s hot hands on his hyper-sensitive skin. “It’ll go away” he whispers, once again, absentmindedly.

 

Tony retrieves one of his hands, and it takes all of Peter’s will-power not to whine.

 

“Happy, get a car ready. Peter’s not feeling well and is going to the compound to have a rest” Tony talks into his wrist-watch ─ that is everything but a watch. Peter sighs, resigned. “Don’t tell aunt May” He adds, and Peter internally thanks him for that. He doesn’t trust his own voice right now, so he thinks it prudent to keep his mouth shut before he screws this up even more.

 

It takes a few more minutes for Peter to be able to get up. Tony gives him his sunglasses and helps him up, his arm around Peter’s waist at all times, lest he lose balance again. Peter feels his touch as burns, where Tony’s hands rest, where their legs brush against one another, it’s almost a burning sensation. It almost hurts, _today_. It almost hurts to have him so near, today of all days, today when he knows for a fact he will never be able to have him this way, _any_  way, because he’s Pepper’s now. Now and before, of course. He was never Peter’s and would never be.

 

“We’ll talk later” Tony says, promises, before Happy walks him away through the back, where they avoid any prying eyes. When they step outside, Peter isn’t sure if the music is down of if he’s actually losing hearing on both his ears; but he’s betting on the former, because Tony is considerate like that.

 

_Later._

 

Well, at least he’ll have time to get his story straight.

__

 

The compound is silent. Silent and big and desolated. Peter relishes in the calmness, and after Happy leaves him on the sofa, charged cell-phone nearby, two aspirins and a glass of water, Peter dozes off right there and then, before the man even has finished pulling down the blinds on the windows. By the time he regains consciousness, the room is still sunk in darkness, and Peter can tell it’s already night. _Or_  evening.

 

He hopes evening; he can’t have slept for a whole day, can he? Is the wedding over?

 

The distant and sudden sound of fireworks answers his question, and he slowly sits up on the sofa, letting out a sigh. It’s still August. Still the most dreaded day in Peter’s life so far. Coming second after the day Uncle Ben died, that is.

 

He stands up, it’s not the time for that trail of thought. _That_ could’ve been prevented. It had been just a petty crime, just a petty mugging, and Peter has wished a thousand times, has dreamed a thousand times, if he’d had these powers back then... If he’d _been_ there... But he’s got the powers now, to stop that from happening again, to stop people from suffering like he did, to stop families from going through that.

 

_‘Do you know how many people get mugged in New York alone in a week? Two-hundred and four’_

 

He walks round the sofa, slowly testing his balance. The headache seems to be completely gone and he can’t feel the blood pumping in his ears anymore. He snatches his web-shooters from the table ─ he doesn’t remember taking those off ─ and makes for the door.

 

FRIDAY’s voice makes him stop dead on his tracks.

 

“ _The boss insisted that I let him know when you woke up, Mr. Parker_ ” The AI tells him. “ _He said to make yourself comfortable_ ”

 

“Oh─ no─ I’m, I’m leaving now” he stutters, and crosses the threshold into the corridor. “I need to go but I’ll call him later” he adds, and checks his phone’s in his pocket for good measure as he descends the stairs.

 

“ _I... have already informed him_ ” FRIDAY says, sounding apologetic, and Peter only picks up the pace. It’s at least ten minutes from the party to the compound, and Peter’s sure Tony won’t use the suit for such a short trip like that one, which means he’ll be gone by the time he arrives to check up on him. Unless FRIDAY screws his plans up.

 

“FRIDAY?” he asks.

 

“ _Yes, Mr. Parker?_ ” comes her gentle voice.

 

“Can you _not_  tell him I’m leaving?” he tries. He’s not sure to what extent Tony’s programmed her ─ it ─ to obey his orders, but sometimes Peter is amazed at the sensibility and thought-process of the AI, it is, after all, just a machine. Virtual.

 

FRIDAY doesn’t answer, and Peter reaches the lobby. He checks his web-shooters and tries firing one up at the air for testing ─ it’s been ages since he used his self-made ones. He needs to leave, because FRIDAY’s silence can only mean one thing.

 

“You’ve already told him, haven’t you?”

 

“ _Sorry, sir_ ” she sounds sheepish. Peter curses when he sees the expensive car pulling up in front of the door, Tony getting out of the driver’s seat.

 

“Damn it” Peter curses under his breath, and turns round and goes into the kitchen. He quickly fills a glass with tap water and leans on the counter in the most natural way he can manage. Why is he so self-conscious today?

 

 _Because you're keeping secrets from him._

 

Tony strolls into the kitchen, and Peter swallows the water and looks up.

 

“Hey” he says. Hey is fine, ‘hey’ is how he normally talks.

 

“Hey” Tony nods towards him. “Feeling better?”

 

“Yeah, I heard you coming” Peter says casually, and takes another gulp of water despite not being thirsty at all.

 

“Sure you did” Tony answers, making his way towards a cabinet and producing an unopened bottle of Scotch from it. He pours himself a glass and points at Peter with it. “Don’t tell Pepper.”

 

“I won’t” Peter answers, and realizes he hasn’t seen Mrs. Potts ─ Mrs. _Stark_ now ─ since he arrived.

 

“She’s been keeping up tabs, says my tongue gets too lose when I drink too much. Lots of important people today, wouldn’t want to insult the Russian council.”

 

He hasn’t congratulated her on the wedding, _nor_ Tony.

 

_It’s going to be weird if you don’t._

 

“Congratulations, by the way, I didn’t get the chance to tell you earlier.”

 

“Yeah, we didn’t get the chance for _much_  earlier” he stares at Peter, who takes another sip of water to buy himself some time. It doesn’t quite work. Tony is staring at him, and Peter can’t come up with any believable story ─ or _any_  story, for what it’s worth. He’s going to know he’s lying, Peter should know better than to treat him like an oblivious idiot. “I’m all ears” Tony drowns the last of his scotch and crosses his hands on his chest, making himself comfortable against the kitchen isle.

 

“You sure you don’t want to wait til’ tomorrow?”

 

“No”

 

“I mean, it's your wedding day” Peter lets out a nervous laugh. _You can’t tell him your identity’s compromised, he’s going to freak out, and you’re going to freak out, and he’ll put his honey-moon off_. “I’m fine now, it’s no big deal, you should be enjoying yourself out the─”

 

 _ _“__ Yeah, you better stop stalling now or I’m gonna get real mad _ _”__ Tony cuts him off with a smile. Peter sighs.

 

He knows that smile.

 

_Okay, just stick to the truth ─ but leave the deadly mercenary in the leather suit out._

 

“It was...”

 

How’s he going to explain being downtown in the first place? The wedding’s on the opposite part of town.

 

“So, so I heard some gunshots” he starts. “And I couldn’t turn around and just ignore them”

 

“But you didn’t have your suit on” Tony nods, and Peter can already feel the hostility coming from him, he’s going to scold him bad, and Peter’s not even going to tell him the _worst_ of it.

 

“Well, it was your wedding day! Is─ is your wedding day, and I didn’t mean to fall asleep, we were going to come together, May and I, so I couldn’t put the suit on or... or bring it”

 

“But she tells me she left you behind” Tony points at him, and tilts his head as if in deep thought. “Did you not think of putting on the suit to buy yourself some time? Or were you deliberately trying to be late?”

 

“What?! No!” Peter exclaims. “Why would I─ you asked me to be here, remember? Why would I do that?”

 

_He knows, oh my god he knows._

 

“I didn’t mean to be late, okay?” Peter frowns. “I’m sorry I didn’t think it through, someone was in trouble so I went to help, I don’t expect you to understand that.” He mumbles that last part, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He can’t help it, he screws up with he’s nervous.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tony takes a step towards him.

 

“Just─ that you didn’t grow up in the rough part of town, is all” he shrugs. _Oh, you’re not going to fix this with a shrug, Peter._ He should’ve left, he should’ve left through the kitchen door, he had his web-shooters on, he would’ve gotten away. Tony wasn’t going to follow him, he had hundreds of guests to dismiss.

 

 _ _“__ Meaning...? _ _”__ Tony prompts him, Peter notices the edge to his voice. _ _  
__

 

_’Have you seen any of their sexy well-groomed expensive faces around lately? No.’_

 

He sighs.

 

“Meaning you don’t have to deal with what __I__  do. I gotta stop a shooting I’m gonna to stop that shooting, I don’t care if I don’t have my suit, people can _die_ ”

 

Tony seems to relax his posture, he looks down, then back up at Peter, and Peter can see something in his eyes, something he doesn’t like.

 

“Peter, you can’t be there _every_  time. You can’t be Spider-Man 24/7”

 

“But I _was_  there!” He exclaims, a little bit more defensive than he would’ve liked. He knows where this is going. He’s never discussed his Uncle Ben’s death with Tony. Peter knows Aunt May told him, but they don’t touch the subject. Just as Tony doesn’t talk about his fall out with Captain America. There are just some things that aren’t meant to be discussed.

 

“Then _put your suit on _”__ Tony retorts, keeping his voice down, jaw tensed and gritted teeth. He takes another step forward, and Peter sets the now-empty glass back on the counter. “If you’re going to stop a shooting, _for gosh sake_ ─  put your suit on.”

 

Peter looks down, and nods.

 

“Put... _those horrible goggles on, but_ ─ just put _something_  on.”

 

He nods again.

 

“ _I don’t know what it is like, I don’t have spider-powers, I don’t have hyper-sensibility_ ─ look at me”

 

Peter snaps his head up.

 

“Do it for─” he stops himself mid-sentence, and stares at Peter for what seems to be an eternity. Of course, it’s just a couple of seconds at most. “Do it for May, if not for you”

 

That hits a spot.

 

May is _everything_  to him, and Tony implying he’s being reckless with no consideration or thought towards his aunt is about the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. And... and it hurts, because it’s probably true. If he hadn’t walked into that neighbourhood, he never would’ve crossed paths with a cold-blooded killer and his identity would still be secret. If he’s compromised, so is his home and his family. So is aunt May.

 

He didn’t _mean_  to stumble upon an armed guy in a costume, he didn’t _mean_  to get involved with the mob, he didn’t _mean_  for his identity to be discovered.

 

“I couldn’t let him die” he mumbles, tries to reassure himself. Dopinder was a normal human being as far as Peter could tell ─ but then again, so was Deadpool, until his bullet wound closed up by itself in the span of five minutes.

 

Maybe his presence there didn’t make a difference. That taxi driver was there of his own volition, and Deadpool ─ well, Peter could almost swear he had enjoyed the whole ordeal. He was _paid_  for killing ‘the bad guys’, after all. Maybe if Peter hadn’t got in that taxi, everything would’ve stayed the same, no-one who wasn’t supposed to die would’ve died, and no-one would be able to link his face to Spider-man.

 

_What is certain is he figured you out for some reason, and you can’t just ignore that. He might sell you to the highest bidder. He’s a criminal._

 

“Who?” Tony comes to lean on the counter next to him, and Peter takes a breath in.

 

_You need to tell him._

 

“Some... some taxi driver, he got caught in the crossfire, he’s fine, he gave me a ride”

 

 _ _“__ Huh, I thought you smelled funny” Tony bumps his shoulder against Peter’s, the edge to his voice gone now. “So you got the bad guys?”

 

_You need to tell him._

 

“Yeah, they, they were trying to rob an ATM.”

 

“How many were they?”

 

_Tell him._

 

“Four. Nothing I couldn’t handle, I just, I got too close and he fired, caught me off guard is all” he shrugs.

 

“He gave you a free ride at least?”

 

He’s out of the woods, isn’t he? Tony’s making conversation. This is good. It’s fine, he doesn’t need to tell him, he can deal with a couple of armed guys. It’s fine, Tony’s got bigger fish to fry.

 

“Yeah─ yeah they didn’t charge me”

 

“They?”

 

_Fuck._

 

“Him” Peter turns around and grabs the glass of water to fill it up again, to have something to do with his hands, to have an excuse to look away. “Him, yeah it was just one driver, why would, why would there be two drivers?”

 

_Shut up._

 

“Makes no sense” he says, a nervous laugh escaping his mouth.

 

_Shut up now._

 

“ _Boss, Mrs. Pepper requires your presence at the entrance_ ” comes FRIDAY’s voice.

 

Tony waits.

 

“I’m coming” he says, but doesn’t tear his gaze from Peter, who places the glass upside down on the counter and turns around and ruffles his hair, avoiding the older man’s eyes. “We’re not finished” Tony points at him, and much to Peter’s relief, walks out of the kitchen. Peter can hear people coming into the lobby, and looks around, making up his mind.

 

Stay or flee?

 

Either of the two will bring consequences, the only matter is what kind.

 

“I didn’t─” Tony stutters, and Peter stops himself halfway to the kitchen backdoor, because it isn’t like Tony Stark to be at a loss for words.

 

“I did” Pepper interrupts. Peter eyes the door, then back to the bottle of scotch Tony left on the counter, the used glass next to it. He tiptoes round the kitchen isle and silently returns the bottle to the cupboard; the glass he leaves in the sink. His hand is on the door handle when he hears another voice, a female voice.

 

“I’m sorry we’re late, we only had to fly in from Scotland.”

 

Natasha Romanoff.

 

He takes that as his cue to leave. Yeah, Tony has bigger fish to fry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think (:


	3. Chapter 3

Peter wouldn’t say he’s _happy_ about Steve Rogers being back into the picture, but he’s not displeased; and that is for two main reasons: one, he hasn’t received a single message from Mr. Stark in two days, which can only mean he’s forgotten about the incident altogether; two, he now doesn’t have to look away every time someone opens a newspaper in front of him when he’s on the tube. The Stark wedding is now old news, and pictures of Pepper and Tony posing together in their matching white outfits have been replaced by pictures of Captain America, Black Widow and Falcon, and big headlines making reference to the Sokovia Accords. Bucky Barnes’ name is everywhere.

 

_‘Stark and Rogers re-united?’ ‘James Buchanan Barnes: threat?’ ‘Where is the Winter Soldier right now?’_

__

Peter doesn’t care much for Barnes, no, he needs to know the whereabouts of another less infamous, more low-key criminal. Granted, he wouldn’t like to be in Steve’s shoes at the present time, but he has to admit he chose a very convenient time to show up. Peter needs time to figure out the Deadpool situation and he can’t exactly do that if Tony is breathing down his neck. Fortunately, Mr. Stark is dealing with more pressing matters, _legal_ matters, so Peter has plenty of time to indulge in illegal activities such as hacking taxi agencies’ databases.

 

“No Dopinder here either” Ned informs him from the bottom bunk bed.

 

“Maybe we’re spelling it wrong...” Peter considers.

 

“You sure that’s his real name?”

 

“No...” Peter groans, and rubs his face with both hands. “I’m not even sure it was a real _taxi _...__  But it’s the only clue I’ve got” he sighs. They’ve been at it for almost four straight hours now, there are opened and empty bottles of coke and packs of chips scattered on the floor ─ May scorned them real bad when she peered in to inform them dinner was ready and they sheepishly told her they weren’t hungry. _Clean this mess up_ , she’d ordered before disappearing back into the corridor.

 

“I think you should─” Ned’s words are stopped by a sudden yawn. “─tell Mr. Stark about it. What if he’s watching you? What if he’s already told some other bad guy about you?”

 

Peter hops off the bed and gracefully lands on the floor next to Ned, cross-legged on the mattress, laptop casting a white light on his tired face.

 

“I’m not telling Mr. Stark”

 

“But─”

 

“He’s got enough on his plate already” Peter takes the laptop away from Ned and closes it, leaves it on the desk. He puts his hoodie on and makes for the window. “Don’t wait up”

 

“Where are you─”

 

“I need some air”

 

He lands on the fire exit stairs with a _thud_ , and webs himself down until he’s on the crosswalk. A cat meows nearby and some drunkard turns round the corner singing an unrecognizable song under his breath, but other than that, the neighbourhood sleeps.

 

He puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking south, vaguely hearing Mr. Stark’s voice in his head, telling him to _put something on _;__  he shakes it off. Mr. Stark also said he can’t be Spider-Man 24/7, so Peter doesn’t have the suit on him tonight. It’s past 2 and the air is warmer than it should be at this hour, humid even, rain is due any time now, so Peter’s counting on no-one choosing this particular night to engage in any dangerous law-breaking activities.

 

Besides, he does have his _web-shooters_  on.

 

_Yeah, because they’re of great use when you don’t have your mask on._

__

But today’s a quiet night.

 

_It’s never a quiet night in Queens._

__

He bets his Uncle Ben also thought it was going to be a quiet night when he decided to take a stroll to the convenience store.

 

He knows _he_  did, and _Aunt May_  did.

 

Peter shakes his head to make the thought go away, and strolls round the drunk man who barely notices him walking past. He frowns in disgust as the smoke of a cigarette makes its way to his nostrils and holds his breath for a couple of steps until the stench of tobacco isn’t so strong, although it lingers for another block.

 

He’s not sleepy, and so he keeps walking, hands in his pockets and a slow and quiet pace. He wonders what Mr. Stark is doing at this hour, and wishes he’d brought his phone with him so he could check on him. Check on the news, he means. Of course, he’s not going to call Mr. Stark himself, he’s not an idiot, he’d be walking right into the lion’s den. No, he’s happy to stay low-key for as long as it’s possible. As long as he can avoid it. As long as nothing big happens.

 

There’s no telling, really, if another big turmoil like the one in Germany will break out. He’d have to get involved, of course. He probably wouldn’t, if somebody other than Tony and Happy knew he was eighteen... Surely the government wouldn’t want him to be involved in political affairs.

 

He was never a fan of law himself, but Mr. Stark _had asked_  him to. Mr. Stark had appeared out of the blue, had just came into his home and made himself comfortable on his couch and had conversed with Aunt May while he’d been in school, oblivious to it all. Mr. Stark had asked _him_ , personally. Not some other enhanced hero ─ and there __were__  others. He didn’t go looking for a mercenary ─ he sure had money to spare, could’ve hired hundreds of them. He chose _him_. Peter remembers every single second of that first encounter as if it’d been yesterday.

 

_You’re the... Spider-ling. Crime-fighting spider? You’re spider-boy?_

__

“Spider-boy” Peter snorts, shaking his head.

 

The expensive car outside had been unusual, yeah, but what _wasn’t_  unusual was for people here around to be indebted, indebted to the __wrong__  people, that is; so he hadn’t spared it much thought. Someone had to collect the money, and that someone worked for somebody on top, somebody who would have a car like that. When he saw Tony Stark sitting on his couch, the theory snapped away from his mind, but still he hadn’t been able to put two and two together.

 

_I definitely did not apply for your grant._

__

_Ned must’ve applied for me_ , he’d thought, he knew all his personal details, he could’ve easily filed in an application. He certainly wasn’t expecting Iron Man to show up at his home to _recruit_  him.

 

_I can’t go to Germany!_

__

The farthest he’d been was _Washington_. He’d never been out of the country, let alone out of the _continent_. And he hadn’t only flown to Europe on a luxurious private jet, he’d flown to Europe _on a luxurious private jet, got a new suit, and fought Captain America_.

 

No, when he’d got up that morning, he never would’ve guessed, not in a million times, that Iron Man would turn up at his house and ask him to fight alongside him. But then again, he never expected much out of life in general. He wasn’t expecting much the day he lost his group, lost his _way_ back to his group on a trip to Oscorp’s lab, and he’d paid for it. But he’s come a long way now, from that day in Oscorp’s lab. From the day Tony showed up. Now he’s _hiding things_ from him, him who had all but looked out for his well-being and built him a high-tech suit and let him stay at the Avengers Compound despite him not being an Avenger.

 

Peter was being incredibly ungrateful, he knew it. But he also knew Tony had canceled his honey-moon and had much more pressing matters to tend to. Peter could _fix_ this, he was __going__  to fix it. He wasn’t going to add to the pile of problems already weighing down on Tony. He was _Spider-Man_ , he could deal with this mess himself, he’d brought down the Vulture, he dealt with criminals on a daily basis, and that’s what Deadpool was. A criminal.

 

_Besides, if he’d wanted you dead he’d had killed you himself, right there._

__

He’d had the perfect opportunity to. He even had a car to dispose of his body.

 

Peter makes a face at the thought. Nobody would’ve known. They could’ve killed him and dropped him anywhere, taken his web-shooters away. Nobody would’ve _thought_  of it.

 

He sees a lightning in the sky and frowns. He should turn back.

 

“How much?” a rough voice says near. Peter doesn’t need to look to know the voice is coming from the alleyway on his right.

 

“That’s relative” a softer voice answers, still a male voice, but this second man’s not slurring his words.

 

“I don’t care how much, just end the fucking bitch” the first voice returns.

 

Peter frowns, but turns around nonetheless. He only engages when someone’s in trouble, and although those two are probably up to no good, he’s can’t exactly do much about it, not without his suit anyway.

 

“Sister Margaret’s, tomorrow at ten.”

 

It’s not his job to stop clandestine affairs. He keeps away from that lot, drug-dealers, gangs and the dark-market. _That’s a job for the FBI, kid. And the DEA. Keep away, I won’t ask twice, one more time and I’m passing this over to Tony, I’m not joking._ Happy hadn’t been happy.

 

The problem was those people had a complete disregard for human life. They didn’t mind who they were firing at, be it an old-lady who’d heard something she wasn’t supposed to, or a little kid who’d serve as a warning to his drug-addicted uncle. _They didn’t care._ Peter could stop an ATM robbery, prevent a car-crash, rescue a baby from a building on fire just fine, but he couldn’t get involved with those kind of people, _for May’s sake_.

 

_That’s a job for the FBI, kid._

__

“That’s a job for Deadpool” Peter mumbles, and stops in his tracks. “That’s a job for Deadpool!” he repeats. He’s been trying to find him for two days, he’s searched the web looking for Dopinder, he’s extended his patrol down south in the hopes he’d catch something that could lead him to him. He’s watched from afar, he’d never thought to get _closer, real_ close.

 

_Sister Margaret’s._

__

He needs to _hire_  him.

 

 

 

“Peter” Ned calls him from outside. “Peter, this is a terrible, terrible idea” he says, for the fourth time in the last hour. Peter sighs, rolls his eyes again and ignores him. It’s normal for Ned to tag his ideas as terrible; that’s only because he doesn’t have super-human strength and spider-senses.

 

Looking himself in the mirror again, he returns Mrs. Leeds’ eye-liner to the cabinet. He walks out of the bathroom, black hoodie on, disheveled hair, a barely visible hint of a shadow on his jaw. He _was_  going to shave it ─ although _shave_  is not the word for it ─ but decided against it. Anything that can help him look older than 18 will be helpful; even if it’s a pathetic excuse for a stubble.

 

“I’m done” Peter meets Ned on the corridor.

 

“I won’t convince you to desist, will I?”

 

Peter groans. “I _have_ to do this”

 

They go back into the bedroom, and Peter sits down on Ned’s bed to put on those maroon soldier boots he hasn’t worn since May bought them for him for that biology hiking trip. They’re a bit tight, but they’ll do.

 

“Except... except maybe he’s even forgotten about you! What do you know? He hasn’t made contact of any kind, what if he isn’t even there? And I can’t believe you aren’t taking the suit, I mean ─ you’re going into a mercenary’s lair! I don’t like this Peter, I think you should _at the very least_ take the web-shoo─”

 

“Ned!” Peter stands up and puts both his hands on his best friend’s shoulders. “My powers don’t come from the suit” he says, voice calm, trying to bring Ned down from all that nervous energy. “I can look after myself. And I’ll take my phone, I’ll text you if anything happens, promise.”

 

“But─”

 

“But nothing _will_ happen” he interrupts. “Now how do I look?” He turns around, hoping to snap Ned’s attention somewhere else.

 

Ned shrugs.

 

“Fine” he says, with a worried face. “That hoodie’s got big pockets, one of the web-shooters will fit...” Ned turns around, and fetches them from under the pillow, where Peter left them earlier.

 

“Ned, I’m going in there because my identity’s been discovered by a criminal, I don’t want any more of them knowing I’m the one bringing their associates and clients down.”

 

"That's why you shouldn’t be going in the first place. What if he’s told everyone?!”

 

Peter chooses to ignore him this time, and makes for the window.

 

“I’ll be all right” he reassures Ned halfway through the window. “I’m Spider-Man” he shows him a smile before pulling his hoodie up to shield his face and taking the fire exit.

 

It’s become a common thing now, sneaking out of houses through windows and using fire exits.

 

He lands on the pavement with a silent sound, and starts walking towards Brooklyn.

 

His mess, his responsibility.

 

 

They’d seen the neighbourhood on _Google maps_ , but the picture had been taken on daylight, and when Peter finds himself on the sidewalk, looking in to the alley extending towards the darkness, he gets goosebumps. He stands there, next to a lamp-post, looking around and trying to look a little drunk, an opened bottle of vodka on his right hand. He spilled almost half the bottle some minutes after having bought it, and hasn’t mustered the courage to take a sip of it yet. It’s one of the boxes he still hasn’t ticked off his list.

 

Dark clothes and boots, check. Disheveled hair, check. A little bit of dark around his eyes to make his features less soft, check ─ this had been Ned’s idea, and Peter regretted it about two blocks before reaching his destination. He’s rubbed his hands over his eyes enough that he is confident the color must have disappeared. If not, then at least it isn’t as noticeable ─ or so he hopes.

 

He only needs to smell like alcohol and will be ready to infiltrate Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls ─ which is a weird and unusually-long name for what seems to be just a bar, Peter thinks.  

 

_Well, it's not your typical bar, you know that much._

 

He takes a few steps back so that he’s no longer standing in the middle of the entrance to the alley, and breathes in deeply before putting the bottle of vodka to his lips and swallowing. He only manages to swallow twice before he crouches down and spits half of it.

 

_Christ, why do people drink this?!_

__

A string of coughs shake his body, and an unbearable burning sensation settles on his throat.

 

Throwing another look to the dark and damp alley, he curses and starts walking in towards the only light, a door.

__

He’s in the right place. That’s the plaque they saw on the internet.

 

_Should it be such an easy place to find? What if it’s a decoy of some sort?_

__

He knows it’s not. He’s been able to hear the music, the conversation, the clinking of glasses and the sound of a pool game ever since he got here, he knows it’s not a decoy. He’s scared.

 

_Can’t go back now, you’re here, you can do this._

__

Gripping the bottle hard, he takes another step, and another.

 

_Three, four, five._

__

He swallows.

 

_You’ve fought two super soldiers, one of them had a metal arm._

__

Except, he wasn’t trapped in a reduced and dark place back then, he wasn’t surrounded by drunk mercenaries. He had _Mr. Stark_ , Tony had his back. _And Rhodey_.

 

_He’s not here. You’re on your own. You screwed-up on your own, and you’ll solve it on your own._

__

Tony had asked him to keep away, keep his distance and just _web them up_. None of this would’ve happened if he’d kept his distance. Kept his distance from Tony, first and foremost. He wouldn’t have developed this stupid crush, he wouldn’t have had to find excuses to miss that wedding, he wouldn’t have thrown himself into this mess.

 

He wouldn’t _be_ here.

 

The door to the bar opens, and Peter startles and turns around, puts his hand in the air and points at the high-up wall, only to realize a moment after he doesn’t have his tech on. _Tony’s_  tech on. He stands there, bottle of vodka in one hand, like a deer caught in the headlights.

 

The man is drunk enough that he doesn’t even seem to realize his presence. Wearing a leather jacket, he stumbles past him mumbling something intelligible, and Peter half-turns to watch him go, surprised he’s even able to stand, let alone walk. The stench of urine and alcohol he leaves behind is what encourages Peter to grab the door, pull it and step in without further thought.

 

If he keeps thinking, he’ll leave, and he can’t afford that. He can’t afford someone like Deadpool to hold his life in his hands. He needs to settle this. Mercenaries follow money, and although Peter doesn’t have much, well... he knows people who do. People. Person. He knows a person.

 

And that person is the one he’s been pointedly hiding this whole affair from.

 

He didn’t think this through, did he?

 

He can almost hear Ned’s voice telling him that _this is a terrible, terrible idea._  He shakes it off.

 

_He doesn’t know... Deadpool doesn’t know Tony’s unaware._

 

“Hey, you! Show me your goddamn ID or get the fuck out” the bearded man stands tall to his right, and Peter notices he’s been too dumbstruck to hear him ask the first time.

 

Too dumbstruck by the stench of alcohol and cigarettes, of pot, of strong cleaning products mixed with vomit. The whole place is practically submerged in a giant cloud, the lights are dim and the air thick. Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls looks and smells exactly like he imagined. Exactly like the kind of place Deadpool would frequent. The kind of place _he_ wouldn’t frequent, the kind of place Mr. Stark wouldn’t want him to frequent.

 

He shows the man the fake ID forged by his best friend ─ needless to say, he’s going to have to treat Ned to a _really_ nice place after this is all over ─ and he returns it with a grunt and a warning.

 

“You cause any trouble you’re out.” He gives him a push from behind, and Peter stumbles into the place, ungracefully catching himself against the bar. Purposefully ungraceful, of course.

 

He wonders if he looks as awkward as he feels.

 

It’s a little hard to play-pretend when he’s gotten so accustomed to his agility. He acts ordinary around May, of course, but he's feeling too self-conscious now, and he __knows__ things don’t work out for him when he gets nervous, but it’s also quite hard to keep said nerves down when he’s surrounded by heavily armed men who double him in size.

 

The bartender looks at him serious, stares at his bottle of vodka and hardens his expression.

 

“You buying anything?” He asks. He’s got long-ish blonde hair, and a big pair of black glasses. Wearing a stripped blue-and-white shirt, Peter thinks he doesn't fit in here at all, where everywhere he looks there’s someone wearing black leather and pointy-punk outfits. He doesn’t see any red-and-black leather suits, though.

 

He wouldn’t be here on his costume, would he?

 

“Are you even legal?” Blonde-hair asks, again, and despite Peter not having answered his previous question, he still places a glass in front of him and fills it with something red.

 

Does every person in here have a costume they wear when they go out killing? Is Deadpool here already? He can’t make out anyone’s voice through all the noise.

 

“I’m legal” Peter nods, frowns, and tries not to make a face at his own breath.

 

Blonde-hair stares at him, and  Peter tries to keep his expression steady. He’s trying to intimidate him, no doubt. Peter takes another gulp of the bottle of vodka for the sake of looking tough. 

 

“I’m looking for someone” he starts. He needs to talk, distract himself from the feeling. The burning feeling on his throat, and the feeling in his gut that hasn’t left since he started approaching the golden plaque in the alley.

 

Sometimes he wishes his spider-senses had a turn-off switch. He made it this far, and he’s not going anywhere without some information. He _knows_  he shouldn’t be here, he doesn’t need _his gut_ to tell him that.

 

“What kind?” Blonde-hair asks as he pours a couple of shots to a man four seats away from Peter’s.

 

Peter hesitates.

 

What’s he supposed to say? The kind that brings down drug-cartels? Child-traffickers? He wears a red and black leather suit? He drives a taxi? The immortal kind?

 

Blonde-hair is back in front of him, raising an eyebrow at his lost expression.

 

“Uh...”

 

“First time, huh?” He smirks. “Killing?”

 

Peter nods, slowly.

 

“Who?”

 

Is this how it works? Is is this easy to just plan somebody’s death? Just a few words, some money thrown over to a bartender and you get the job done? You end someone’s _life_?

 

“Step-father” Peter blurts out.

 

“I see” Blonde-hair snatches his bottle of vodka from his hand and sets it out of Peter’s reach. He pushes the red shot in his direction though, and leans over the counter. “You gotta pay first” the man says, nodding towards the small glass, and Peter isn’t sure if he’s referring to the killing or the drink, _or both_.

 

“I didn’t order that” he answers, despite his inner voice strongly recommending him not to antagonize this guy. Or _any_  guy. “And I’m looking for someone in particular” he clears his throat, glances at the red liquid. It’d surely make the burning disappear for a couple of seconds, freshen up his vocal chords, but he doesn’t know what’s _in_ it. He looks back up to the bartender. “To do the job, I mean” he adds.

 

“I know what you mean” Blonde-hair answers immediately, as if insulted. “That’s not how it works.”

 

“I think he goes by the name of Deadpool?” He tries, leaning over the counter himself so that Blonde-hair can hear him clearly. His heart is hammering in his chest, his breath is unsteady, though he’s trying to keep it normal. Blonde-hair stares at him deadpan but gives no answer.

 

Peter sighs. This will get him nowhere. Maybe he’s never been _here_ , maybe this isn’t even the _right_ place.

 

 _It’s the closest one _.__  

 

This can’t be the only corner in town where contract-killers operate. By coming here he’s only putting himself in evidence; and if this is not the bar he frequents, if this is some kind of rival business where Deadpool or Dopinder have enemies in... Well, nothing good would come out of him speaking their names.

 

None of _that_  came to mind when he was safely planning his moves at home, and now his lack of preparation is making his nerves rise up again. 

 

“I don’t have the money now” he says, and slides off the chair. “I’ll... come back next week.”

 

“He'll be here tomorrow” a female voice comes from behind, and Peter turns around, taken off guard. A brunette stands tall ─ taller than him, anyway ─ smiling at him. Her purple coat brushes Peter's leg when she moves forward to take the sit he just vacated. She downs the red shot in the blink of an eye. Peter stares agape, unable to mutter a sound. “I’ll pass your message.”

 

“No” Blonde-hair interrupts. “No, it doesn’t work like that, I told him al─”

 

The brunette turns around to stare at the bartender, who closes his mouth immediately. He curses and fills the glass again for her, the same bottle, the same red liquid.

 

He directs his words back at him, ignoring her. “You give us the job, we pick the man” He points at Peter.

 

“Don’t mind Weasel” The woman turns back to Peter, the smile never leaving her red lips. “He just collects.”

 

“You mean─ you mean he works here?” Peter stammers. “Deadpool?”

 

She swallows the red liquid and blinks at him.

 

“Swing round tomorrow” Is all she says, before she turns round on the chair and shows him her back.

 

_Swing round?_

 

Peter looks at Blonde-hair ─ Weasel ─ staring daggers at him. He doesn’t say anything else, though, and Peter takes his leave as quick as he can. The bearded man who asked for his ID watches him go out with an amused expression.

 

When he steps outside, the fresh clean air feels like inhaling life.

 

_Swing round._

 

That's just an expression, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, folks! Much grateful for all the kudos! Don't be afraid to leave a comment!
> 
> Bit of a filling chapter, this one. Next one will have some more exciting stuff, I promise. Any wagers as to who purple-coat is? (;
> 
> Also, I do like to stress words out a lot... sorry for that lol. See you on chapter 4!


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